


Wearing His Clothes

by kaeorin



Series: Stark Tower: Avengers Drabbles [10]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Clothing Kink, Cuddling & Snuggling, F/M, Hoodies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 11:35:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17559635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaeorin/pseuds/kaeorin
Summary: Bucky likes it when you wear his hoodies. Like…really likes it.





	Wearing His Clothes

Solo missions always did this to him.

By the time he got back to the Tower, he was hardly human anymore. His throat was ragged, and there was that distinct metallic, coppery taste in his mouth that he hated. His neck and shoulders were sore, the kinds of aches that threatened to become part of his body. He leaned against the side wall of the elevator and jabbed blindly at the button for his floor. He could feel the blood on his hands. He’d cleaned up on the jet, of course, but...the blood was still there. He could feel it burning into his skin. It’d never not be there. He finally gave in to his body’s primary demand: he let his eyelids droop closed, in some feeble attempt to shut out the broken, teeming world that he had to see every day.

He didn’t even really open his eyes when the elevator stopped and the doors slid open; he just readjusted his bag on his shoulder and took a step out. Some time to himself, that’d be good. Some time to exist in his own space, in his own past. 

If he wasn’t so wrapped up in his own mind, he would have noticed faster. Tonight, though, he didn’t. The elevator hadn’t taken him to his own floor. It had dropped him off right in the middle of one of the common floors. If he’d been paying attention, he would have noticed right away that the room sounded wrong, that it smelled wrong, that it was the wrong temperature. As it was, he got one full step out of the elevator before things clicked. And that was enough.

“Hey, stranger.” It was you. Of course it was you. He could see the side of your head, just barely popping up over the back of the couch. He knew without looking that you had wedged yourself into the corner with your legs stretched out on the cushions in front of you. There was probably a book in your lap. No, there was almost definitely a book in your lap.

He wanted to turn on the ball of his foot and stalk right back into the elevator, but now he couldn’t. It was all too easy to imagine the expression that would contort the lovely features of your face. Worry, of course, and maybe a little sadness, but definitely the worry. Any time that he’d ever hurt you because of any of his bullshit baggage, that was what you looked like. That always made it worse. You never yelled at him like he deserved for hurting you. Instead, you were concerned about him, always convinced that there was something bad going on inside his head that was causing these issues. It was one of the many things that made it easy for him to love you.

But it also made it real damn hard to lock himself away from you.

He let his bag swing down off of his shoulder, dumping it rather unceremoniously on the ground before taking a step toward you. “Hiya, kid.” He wasn’t sure he was fit for anything more affectionate than that, but something inside him was warming at just the sight of you. You looked up to meet his gaze and gave him that smile he loved: that wide, sunny smile that lit up your whole face. The first time you’d smiled at him like that, he almost couldn’t believe it. Someone like you, looking at someone like him like . It was the beginning of the end for him. Now, even after all this time, that smile was still all it took to strike him dumb. His hand twitched at his side, aching to reach up to caress your cheek, but he refrained. Couldn’t help but smile back at you, though.  


And that’s when he noticed, really noticed it: You were wearing his sweatshirt.

He loved seeing you in his clothes. That was probably standard, really, but it didn’t change how he felt about it. He pretended to be annoyed whenever one of his shirts went missing, only to reappear on you, but...he wasn’t. Every time he saw you swathed in the same material that had once rested against his own skin, the same little thrill rushed through him. He especially loved pressing his nose to your neck and breathing in the scent of you, the both of you—your skin and his co-mingling. There was something about it that made him feel like he was allowed to be there, that he was...permitted. If someone like you could let him, in, surely that had to mean something. He took a few more steps toward you, around the couch.

“You cold?” His voice sounded rusty as he gestured toward your choice of outfit. If his stunted fucking awkwardness ever put you off, you’d never given any sign of it. True to form, you merely closed your book and let it rest on your legs.

“I was.” You tilted your head back to get a better look at him. “I’m not now.” Despite your sweetness and light, there was still a guardedness in your face when you looked at him sometimes. To be honest, it made him feel better. It told him that you didn’t enjoy spending time with him simply because you were naive and over-trusting. You knew what he was, what a relationship with the Winter Soldier could entail. Tonight, despite everything else he was feeling, he was struck with the urge to kneel at your feet and try to kiss away that little crease between your eyebrows. “How’re you doing?”

“Been better.” He didn’t like lying to you. Sometimes the honesty made him nervous, like eventually he’d just be Too Much and you’d have to leave, but the alternative was unthinkable. He rubbed the back of his neck, mostly as an excuse to look away. “Things went bad.”

“Are you hurt?” He felt, more than saw, your eyes travel the length of his body, looking for signs of injury. He dropped his arm and shook his head. He wasn’t the one who’d gotten hurt. Killing was what he was built for, after all. The silence thickened between you, a clear sign that you understood what he was telling you. “You...want to join me, or…?”

You knew. Warmth flooded through his body—he could actually feel some of the tension leave his muscles. You knew how he dealt with missions like these, and you were giving him an out. Only moment ago, he’d wanted to retreat into the elevator and hide himself in his own room, but now that you were telling him he could go, he wanted nothing more than to stay here. With you. He nodded, just once, but it was enough. 

You slid one leg off of the couch, probably trying to readjust your position, but he moved before you could finish. He knelt between your legs and stretched out on top of you, burying his face in your neck. He’d been gone long enough that his sweatshirt now smelled mostly like you, but he was glad to breathe you in. You tightened your arms around him, and suddenly, for the first time in weeks, he felt grounded. How did you do that? 

He lifted his head just enough to press his lips against the skin of your neck. In response, you made that sound he loved—that half-sigh, half-whimper that you only ever made for him. He slipped his gloved hand beneath you, splaying his fingers out against your back as he held your body closer to his. You wriggled beneath him, adjusting your position so you were lying down more than sitting, and the movement made his hoodie ride up. He pressed his free hand against the skin of your belly. You were always so warm. He traced abstract patterns against your tender skin until you stilled his fingers with your hand.

“It tickles,” you whispered, and your voice held just a trace of self-consciousness. He smiled to himself and kissed your neck again.

But it was hard to stop touching you. He’d been by himself for weeks now, thinking about you the way a thirsty man thinks about water. He put a little more weight into his touch and lifted his head to check on you. You were already looking at him with a certain kind of haziness in your gaze. It warmed him. He knew he had to look the same. You bit your lower lip and nodded, somehow knowing what he was looking for, and then let your head drop back against the arm of the couch.

God, it could be hard to look at you like this sometimes. Spread out underneath him, so vulnerable and yet so open. On really bad nights, he couldn’t shake the intrusive thoughts that crept in like poison: how easy it would be to wrap his fist around your throat, or to slide the dagger out of his boot. But tonight, it was easier to push them away. You both knew what he was. You both knew that, theoretically, it could be very easy for him to hurt you right now. But more importantly, you both knew that that would never happen. So you let yourself be soft and warm beneath him, and he let himself enjoy it.

“You look...” He swallowed thickly. “...real nice in my clothes.” It was hard to get his mind around how you did it so easily: wrapped his scent around you like it was something to be proud of, especially in common areas of the tower like this. You weren’t afraid of people seeing you. Granted, the people who would see you were more or less his friends, but it still seemed like such a Statement to him.

“It makes it easier when you’re not home.” You reached up to gently tug his hair out of the tie he used to keep it out of his face, then worked your fingers through his hair. Fuck, you felt good. He hadn’t even realized how much tension there was in his scalp until you came along to work it out. “Makes me feel like you’re here. I missed you.” You kept your voice soft, like maybe you were afraid to say anything at all. Before this was a common thing, the darkness in his mind might have convinced him that you didn’t want to admit it. Now that he knew you, however, he knew that you just didn’t want to make him feel bad for leaving. The warmth that he was feeling shifted, then, became something a little sharper and more pressing. He let his fingers dip beneath the waistband of your pajama pants.

He heard you draw in a breath—something quick, something soft—and drank in the way you arched into his touch. “I missed you too.” He lowered his mouth to taste your skin. He could feel your pulse quicken as he dipped his hand lower, as he ghosted his fingers along your outer lips. You sighed that sigh again, but it was a little sharper this time, a little more insistent. Any other night he might have drawn it out, teased you a while. He loved hearing you plead with him even though you both knew he’d never leave you unsatisfied. 

Tonight, though, he wanted the connection. He needed to feel you. He bit down gently as he parted you, as he drew lazy circles around your clit. You were already wet, he realized with a rush. Not dripping or anything ridiculous, but wet enough to coat his fingers right away. Just from lying here with him? Just from feeling him? He felt a moan rumble through his chest, and you echoed the sentiment.

“I _really_ missed you,” you whispered again. He could hear the sheepish smile that curled your lips, but he closed his mouth over yours without looking. You opened to him immediately, letting your tongue slide against his even as his fingers moved against you. He shifted to press his erection against your thigh. He’d always felt a little silly doing that, like some schoolboy rutting against his first sweetheart, but you always seemed to like it. Sure enough, you whimpered and tightened your fingers in his hair. He couldn’t keep from smiling.

“I missed you too,” he said when you finally broke the kiss to breathe. He rubbed his nose against the soft skin just behind your ear. How was it possible for someone to smell so good? He readjusted his hand so he could press his fingers inside you and stroke you with his thumb. You matched his thrusts effortlessly, rolling your hips to grind yourself against his hand. Times like these, he knew you were his. Something in his chest called out to you. He knew he was yours, too. “You gonna come? Gonna come right here for me?”

The only response you could manage was still another whimper and the barest hint of a nod. Even that was a gift to him. That you let him see you like this: wordless, desperate. Some nights, that was why he drew it out so long. Tonight, he slanted his mouth over yours again. You’d been apart too long. He needed to feel you coming. He didn’t slow down as he felt your muscles tensing, didn’t pull back to tease you. Instead, he felt his own breath catch in his throat as your pleasure swelled, crested, broke. You moaned into his mouth and he drank the sound hungrily, kissing you deeply as you writhed against him. He didn’t stop touching you. He knew your body well enough to know that he could work you through several more little aftershocks before you’d try to push him away. 

You shivered in his arms despite the heat that was pouring off of your skin. _That’s my girl._ The words sprang into his mind, but he didn’t say them out loud. A different time. A different night. Tonight he let his fingers go still and rested his forehead against yours. 

He could kill people. He did kill people—regularly and often without a second thought. His hands had been the end for any number of people, and he couldn’t know how many more such deaths awaited people in the future. But his hands could also do that to you: make you go all warm and writhing and make you hold on to him like he was the one thing that held you to this earth. Maybe it was selfish to treasure your climaxes like that, but he did it anyway.

Before long, he heard you swallow, felt you arch into him again. “I need you.” Your voice was soft, like it’d been all night, but he didn’t hear any more self-consciousness in it. He could listen to that all night. You tugged gently on his hair again, like you were trying to make sure he’d heard you. “Please?”

He smiled despite himself and pulled himself up so he was kneeling between your legs again. It didn’t feel like the right time to make a stupid joke about it being his pleasure, or doing whatever it took to please his girl. He worked the fly on his pants to free his erection even as you tugged your pajamas down just far enough. You both had beds, and private bedrooms, only a short elevator trip away, but the urgency in your voice and in his body made that irrelevant. He positioned himself at your entrance and watched, transfixed, as he rubbed himself against you. You sighed, almost with relief.

“I’m pretty sure Stark’s got cameras rigged up everywhere,” he warned. 

You scoffed. “Let him watch. Just _fuck_ me, Buck.”

That was all it took to push aside any of his lingering doubts. He stretched back out over you, bracing himself against the couch with one arm and pulling you closer to him with the other. As he did, he pushed his way inside you. You were so fucking _hot_. The warmth seemed to spread through his body, soothing him in ways that nothing else could. It was hard to think. He moved slowly, not in any particular hurry for this to be over. You were stretched so tight around him that he worried about hurting you, but there was no sign of pain in your movements or your voice. You breathed his name as he moved inside you, dug your fingers into his back. God, he’d missed this. He could feel your muscles clenching around him, sometimes almost tightly enough to hold him in place. He buried his face in your neck again and sucked a mark into your skin. It was stupid. You were both grown adults with no need for hickeys, but he loved marking you up. He liked knowing that he could leave marks that weren’t scars. He loved seeing them on you the next day. It was like how you wore his clothes in public, but so much more intimate. You shuddered beneath him. He felt your nails scraping his skin. _Fuck_.

His whole world became the rhythm and the feel of you and the way you said his name. Everyone else in the Tower could have come parading through the room and he wouldn’t have noticed. Or cared. Your bodies moved together, practically as one, arching together, then separating only as far as was absolutely necessary. He felt, more than heard, a sob wrack through you and he faltered, alarmed, as he studied your face. You must have known what he was thinking, because you opened your eyes and managed a smile.

“Is this okay?” Stopping at this point could well and truly destroy him, but he’d rather die than hurt you. A quick laugh bubbled out of you, much as that sob had, and you nodded vehemently.

“You feel so _good_.” Your voice was a whine. “I don’t know what to do.”

He could swear that he felt his heart swell. Maybe he knew what you meant. There wasn’t much else he could do right now to deal with all this fucking _love_ he felt. Whether he deserved all this or not, it was here. You were here. He pressed his forehead to yours again. “Just keep doing what you’re doing, baby.” You felt so _good_ wrapped around him like this, but he couldn’t quite summon the courage to speak those words out loud.

He was getting close. His muscles were tensing. He was throbbing inside you, which only served to make each thrust feel even better. It took every ounce of self-control to keep from suddenly letting loose, to keep from readjusting his position so he could fuck you into the couch. That wasn’t what this was about. That wasn’t really what either of you needed. Instead, he maintained the same slow, steady, _tortuous_ pace and pulled your earlobe between his teeth. You were close too. He could hear it in your breathing. He growled softly in your ear the way he knew you liked, telling you how beautiful you were, how good, how much he fucking loved you.

It must have done the trick. He felt you clamp down around him, felt the fluttery spasms in your muscles that told him you were coming. That was all he needed. He came too: hard, and buried deep inside you. You were all he could think about. You. The scent of you. The way you felt. The sounds you made. The things you did to him. If he held you too tightly, you gave no sign of it.

When his body came back to normal, he opened his eyes. You were stroking gentle fingers through his hair. When he looked at you, you were already looking at him. Your eyes were soft, and you smiled at him. What could he ever possibly have done to deserve any fraction of you? He might have mused on that a while, spinning out into who knows what kind of self-loathing tangents, but just then, you yawned. 

Somewhat reluctantly, he untangled himself from you and sat up. Exhaustion had stolen through his body and replaced all his tension with sheer leaden weight, but he found it in himself to fasten his pants and help you tug your pajamas back into place. He forced himself to his feet and offered you his hand. “Take me to bed?” He flashed what he hoped was a charming smile. You let him help you to your feet. Your hand felt small in his; he raised it to his lips to kiss your knuckles.

Whatever he’d done to deserve all this, he thought to himself even as you tugged him gently towards the elevator, he wanted to keep doing it for the rest of his life.


End file.
